


night is for reflection

by devilcrowned



Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, guys im bad at tagging!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 11:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17641547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilcrowned/pseuds/devilcrowned
Summary: ‘  I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.  ‘ - richard siken.the terra-arc house is so warm. it’s the first time the boy has been relaxed in ages. but what good is it when you share your headspace with a restless immortal?a moment's respite, taken from between episode 9 and 10 of volume 6.





	night is for reflection

he knows that he should be asleep. he’s tired, muscles worn from a hard day’s work of exercise and brain worn from a hard day’s work of having to, well, being a brain. teenagers from the ages of 14 to 17 need about 8 to 10 hours of rest so that they can grow happily and healthily, and that’s a proven scientific fact. but such lofty aspirations are impossible to reach for, in these times.

when oscar dreams, he sees green meadows, dew dripping off of freshly grown grass and sunlight peeking through verdant leaves above. it’s a calm, peaceful time, and like any child, he sets forth on adventure after adventure, slaying monsters and bringing back the day.

when he had arrived, the lights had started to grow just a bit dimmer.

it’s small, little things-- some cloud cover here, a bit of rain there, a few overgrown leaves in places that they hadn’t been before. but midday started to stop being their style, and the sun had edged closer and closer to the ground, as if the horizon was inviting it in, warning to swallow it whole. from morning to day, day to evening, evening to night. it grew darker and darker, just as it wasn’t supposed to be. no one wanted to know what was hidden in the dark. no one wanted to acknowledge the truth.

he sighs, looking up at the ceiling. he can barely see anything, given how its the middle of the night and oscar was much too embarrassed to ask for something like keeping the lamp on to keep any inner demons away. he’s already tried-- ozpin’s presence is something that he can never be rid of, no matter the time of day.

he’s not dreaming now, oscar that is. maybe it’s better that way. oz can feel the calmness emanating from the boy’s particular spot of their shared psyche, soft and unassuming. he’d always been a quiet one, from the very beginning. it had only been through oz’s pushing that he managed to speak up about any of his thoughts. in a way, that was good, wasn’t it? he had managed to help someone gain some sort of voice.

but it’s always easy to give yourself a pat on the back for such simple things. the man watches the grip of his cane in his hand for the longest time, before giving it a twirl and setting it down again. the sheer amount of lifetimes he had dragged himself through had made it a cinch to psychoanalyze and locate the parts of one’s mentality that they considered important, insecure. parts that people were afraid of showing off but wanted so badly to be touched and moved back and forth in the hands of someone that knew what to do with the pieces. he had put tens of thousands of puzzles together. at some point it stopped being difficult. it just took time. 

he had done so, over and over, for the war, for beacon, for the students and the political figures that pulled from to and fro. you put a piece in place and paused. you watched to see if the part would stay. and if it did, you’d continue on. if it didn’t, you’d try with some different pieces instead. it had been quiet, long drawn, delicate work, but when he walked past the dorm halls, heard the children laughing as they started up yet another game of cards, he found that, in those moments, even the emptiest parts of him could smile.

the puzzles were destroyed that day, all in a single moment. 

eyebrows furrow together as he puts a hand to his forehead ( the new gloves oscar had chosen were perfect, he notes with a half-amused smirk ) and thinks of where everything went wrong. kids were supposed to be in school so that they could follow their dreams. friends are supposed to tell each other everything, no matter how good or bad the information was. kingdoms were supposed to be places were people could feel safe from the evils of the world. headmasters are supposed to be role models that could handle tough situations and actually know what they were doing. children from the ages of 3 to 5 were supposed to have 10 to 13 hours of sleep a night.

mmmn.

a quick look at oscar’s scroll reminds him of the hour. it’s much too late to be awake-- especially when he feels the sleep behind his eyes, begging, _begging_ for him to close them and hopefully drift somewhere. but ozpin hasn’t had a restful sleep in such a long time. he isn’t sure if he’s capable of it. he has to hold oscar’s hand during the night, after all. and, much to his own disappointment, he had been shirking on his duty lately, stuck in his own reverie.

so ol’ oz stretches out, tries to make sure every single little cell in the boy’s body is as relaxed as can be, before, moving to slip off his boots, his jacket, his gloves. ( oscar, as soon as the beds were set up, had collapsed right into his designated spot, not bothering to go through basic nightly hygiene and the ever tried tradition of putting on pajamas. ) he makes himself as comfortable as he can, readjusting the blankets and pillows and sinking into the plushness of it. 

oscar’s consciousness bubbles with a stir, almost about to pop back into waking, but ozpin is already retreating back into the recesses of the boy’s mind, settling into his own corner. the boy takes over unknowingly and tucks his hands underneath his head, letting out a long drawn exhale. it’s dark. oscar frowns, but no, he does not dream, he does not wake. he sleeps.

the immortal takes the fading child’s hand and squeezes it softly. _you have such dramatic tastes in clothing,_ he says with a smile. _i appreciate the gesture._

_good night, oscar._

**Author's Note:**

> i think i wrote this one in a haze at 5 am one day. it feels like it at least. it's interesting thinking of ozpin taking control in times where no one would be aware, even oscar-- he's a wily, paranoid bastard. it's just what's natural to him! i hate it actually
> 
> thanks for reading!!


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